Sixty Seconds of Hope: The Spark is Still There

When the world used to want me—and sometimes still does.

Most days, I tell myself I’m good with this stage of life. I’ve made peace with it. Many people expect less of you when you’re older—and weirdly, that’s a relief sometimes. I even play the old grandma card when it serves me, like when I want my grandkids to dig the holes for the new shrubs. Works like a charm.

And I’m not lonely. I’m not unloved. I have a husband who makes me feel seen and cherished every single day. I don’t walk around aching for affection.

And yet—every now and then—something stirs. Usually triggered by music. The kind that transports me straight back to my high-voltage days. The kind that turns my whole body into memory.

The other night, without knowing what she was about to do to me, my daughter queued up Lionel Richie while we made pizza. And just like that—I was back. The beat hit, and suddenly I was 32 again (a very young 32), pulsing with that wild, full-body knowing.

Because there was a time—
if I’m being honest—
when it felt like the world itself wanted me.
When I’d walk into a room
and feel the eyes,
the energy,
the unspoken yes
that traveled across a bar
or a newsroom
or a grocery store aisle.

It wasn’t just attention.
It was heat.
Animal. Instinctual.
Something deep that lived in my hips,
in my laugh,
in the way I held
someone’s gaze a beat too long.
It felt… alive. And powerful.
And dangerous in all the best ways.

That’s what I miss—not the being desired part, but being broadcast. That particular kind of voltage you carry when you’re young, or hot, or both. That strange social currency that lets you move through the world with this low-key hum of yes under your skin.

And let’s be real:
Sometimes I still feel it.
Even now.
For a few seconds here and there,
I feel that spark.

But I don’t talk about it much.
Saying it out loud feels risky.
Like it invites judgment.
Like it makes me sound shallow.
Like I’m not supposed to care anymore.

Let’s call that what it is: internalized ageism.

It’s when us older folks
make ourselves smaller—
not just because others do,
but because we’ve learned to shrink first,
so it won’t hurt so much when the world
forgets to make room for us.

And if that sounds familiar—
You’re not broken or weak.
You’re human.
You’re a product of your time.
Of our time.

Maybe today, you just
Admit it to yourself.
Or to a trusted friend.
Maybe you say,
“Yeah, I’m in menopause (or perimenopause).”
No hashtags required. Just the truth.
Just the beginning of something better.

Because the truth is:
You didn’t lose your value
when your period stopped (or stopped being regular).
You didn’t stop being desirable
when your neck softened or your hips squared off
(or your breasts started to sag).
And you’re not invisible—
unless you disappear yourself.

You still got it.
It just doesn’t look like it used to.
It’s not in how your jeans fit
or how many heads you turn.
It’s in how you walk into a room,
as if you own the place.
It's in the way you laugh louder now,
love deeper,
And know who the hell you are.

But here’s the thing—
We weren’t meant to carry that truth alone.
Naming it in ourselves is powerful.
But sharing it?
That’s how things shift.

OK so I buried the lead:
If we want to change how this story ends.
We’re going to need each other.

So if you’re nodding quietly,
That’s enough for now.
One day,
You’ll speak it.
Post it.
Maybe even shout it.

But for today,
I just hope you
feel a little less alone.

Because you are so not.

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If this hits close to home—if you’ve felt that flicker—you’re not alone.

Forward this to someone who needs to hear it. Or whisper it to yourself.

Either way, the spark’s still in there.

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